


If You Want to Be Free, Be Free

by mia6363



Series: Sing Among the Stars [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Angst, Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Mild Blood, Not accurate science in the slightest, One Hell of a Reunion, Questionable Government Systems, Still Stealing All the Mass Effect and Star Trek Terms, Tattoos, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: Sequel to: If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out.“Hey.” Erica hit her hand down on the table to get the crew’s attention. “Remember this one?”She took a deep breath and began to sing, a warbled tune that she’d heard the Commander hum when he thought he was alone. Others joined in, providing words, and soon the entire table was thundering with music in a language none of them could identify. Boyd might have been singing a bloodthirsty war song, but it didn’t taste like one. It tasted like the way Stiles laughed when he was surprised, or how he’d grip a crew mate's shoulder to tell them they did an exceptional job.





	If You Want to Be Free, Be Free

John didn’t move. 

He _couldn’t_ move. His heart seemed to freeze in his chest as he stared at the _man_ in his house, at the man who was unmistakably his son. His knees were locked in place until the man, _Stiles_ , huffed out a breath. It was a sound that John knew intimately, it was how Stiles laughed when he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to make a sound. 

That tiny puff of breath freed John to stumble forward, his eyes burning and he could hardly see as he staggered toward his son. He collided into him, pulling him into a hug that _hurt_. 

He smelled the same. John almost laughed at the absurdity of it, because surely he was projecting, it had been so long and even in his hysteria John knew that Stiles had a _hell_ of a story. But he breathed deeply and it was Stiles, the same smell that clung to his clothes, to the room that John didn’t dare change even after all these years. It was sweat, it was sunlight against fresh grass, it was orange soda bubbling across his tongue— 

Metal dug into his chest and John firmly pushed Stiles away so he could clumsily yank at the armor he was wearing. He his world swam in stinging tears. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t say that he just wanted it _off_ , he needed to _feel_ that Stiles was really there, not some metal soldier. Every time he tried to push the words out, his throat tightened and spasmed uselessly. Guttural sounds left him. 

Stiles understood anyway. Of course he did. 

His fingers quickly went to latches that John hadn’t seen and with a twist, pop, and _hiss_ , the metal clattered to the floor. John’s knees hit the floor painfully and he sobbed, wretched and raw. He pressed his face to his son’s stomach, so close and not close enough. Weathered and calloused hands gently squeezed his shuddering shoulders. Oxygen finally came to John in greedy gulps and he wiped the misery from his eyes and came back to himself. He looked up at his son in time to see a few tears slip off Stiles’s eyelashes. 

“I’m sorry.” Stiles, his little boy, sniffed and his hands tightened on John’s shoulders. “I’m s-so sorry it took me so long, Dad.” 

“No.” John stood on shaking legs. He shook his head and pulled Stiles close so he could hide his tears in his chest the way Stiles used to. “You’re here.” John ran his fingers through Stiles’s hair, through how shorn and neat it had been kept, down to the back of his neck so he could squeeze. It was what he used to do, after Claudia died and Stiles would suddenly have trouble catching his breath at the most random of times. Hug, hide his face, and squeeze the back of his neck until Stiles could breathe again. It had been years… so many long years, but suddenly it was like no time had passed at all.. “You’re _here_ , that’s all that matters.” 

He swayed in his living room. When he turned he caught the monsters slipping into the kitchen as if to give them a semblance of privacy. 

John’s dizziness faded with every breath he took and he glanced down at the armor on the floor. The designs were like the boots by the door, military and engraved with lettering unlike John had ever seen. A glimmer caught his eye and that was when John really _saw_ the gold that spread over Stiles’s temple, in a large circle that then thinned out to spider-like legs, smooth against his skin and then dipped under. _Into_ his son. 

Stiles could breathe again and he stepped back, just a half-step. 

_God_ , he’d grown. He had Claudia’s eyes but so many of his expressions and mannerisms… John still recognized them. There was a selfish part of John that wanted to remain in the delicate bubble of happiness. He could easily kick the armor to the side, grab a blanket, and offer to order a pizza. It could be that easy. 

But there were creatures peering at him from his kitchen and metal imbedded along his son’s skull. 

He wiped the remainder of Stiles’s tears from his cheek. 

“Where did you go?” 

Stiles smiled, thin and exhausted like he’d had the same thoughts as his father, that he knew they’d have to face reality. John took time to look at him, really look at the scars that peeked out from under Stiles’s undershirt, at how rigid his posture was that typically came from service in the military, and how deep the wrinkles were at the corner of his eyes already. Stiles sighed, long and slow. 

“It’s a long story.” He squeezed John’s arm, friendly and firm. “One that’s going to be hard to believe, but I’ve got some friends who can back it up.” 

He tugged John towards his kitchen with an easy-going smile on his face, like those monsters, like those _things_ were a group of friends. John stumbled and he was tempted to pull away but he knew that there was no turning back. He held his breath as he fell in step behind his son and didn’t flinch when all the creatures stared at him. 

:::::

Stiles’s father took it pretty well, all things considering. 

Allison stood in what Stiles called a kitchen, though Allison had trouble imagining eating food in a room full of what looked like medieval instruments of pain. She ignored her odd surroundings and focused on Stiles and his father as her Commander dutifully explained his history. Some of his stories made her raise an eyebrow, at how he skirted over his accomplishments with a “and then I was promoted from First Officer to Commander,” as if it were an everyday occurrence for someone so young to ascend. 

Isaac had his fingers by his mouth as if he had to force the words, “But _Commander_ , tell him how it really happened,” from spilling past his lips. Derek was stoic as ever, but Peter and Lydia looked breaths away from objecting as Stiles shrugged past most of his trials. 

Over the course of a few minutes Stiles’s father’s gaze went from morbid to satisfied. He took the information, processed it, and moved on as he listened to his son. Allison’s lips curled. She could see the family resemblance. 

“That’s the basics,” Stiles yawned and his whole body shook. “I’ll tell you the rest… later.” 

He fell into a chair, his eyes glassy and his lips curled into a clumsy grin. Derek moved quickly and quietly, ever the diligent medic, and unzipped his bag. He gently took Stiles’s arm and pulled out a syringe. 

Stiles’s father tensed, his eyes wide as he took two stiff steps towards Derek. 

“ _What the hell are you doing_ —?”

“Dad.” The Commander spoke, stern and confident. His father fell silent, his eyes wide as Stiles relaxed, the tension draining from him as he ruffled Derek’s hair. “This is Derek. He’s… he’s the best doctor in the galaxy. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.” 

“You’d be in better shape if you _listened_ to me every once and awhile,” Derek flicked Stiles’s ear with a growl. “You _need sleep_ , Commander.” 

“Quit it with the Commander, Doc.” Stiles smiled. “It’s Stiles.” Derek rolled his eyes and made no promises. Allison felt the last of her worries leave her as Stiles laughed and turned back to his father. “I haven’t really slept in a couple of days, Dad. I was… excited to get here. Derek’s been dying to knock me out and get me caught up on my vitamins.” 

Stiles’s father fixed Derek with an intimidating glare. Derek swallowed and the muscle in his jaw twitched. Allison almost hit herself in the head. Of _course_ his father would be hesitant to believe. In the excitement of getting to _Earth_ and fulfilling Stiles’s one and only wish, they’d all forgotten their regimented practice of speaking Stiles’s language. 

To Stiles’s father, Derek was a grunting animal with a syringe, not the Chief Medical Officer that had served aboard _The Beacon_ for years. 

“Please,” Allison’s tongue felt awkward and swollen in her mouth as she forced her lips to move to Stiles’s language. “I trust Derek with my life. We all do.” 

Stiles’s father, weathered in his uniform, nodded. 

“Fine. But if Stiles is going to sleep it’s going to be in a _bed_ and not on the kitchen table.” 

Stiles snorted and they all relaxed. His father helped him up out of the chair and led him up the stairs. When Stiles had shown them his home, he kept them to the first floor, saying that the bedrooms and bathrooms were upstairs. Derek followed first, then Allison, followed by Isaac, Lydia, then Peter. The stairs were wood that Allison couldn’t help but feel nervous about standing on when it creaked.

The room at the end of the hall was their goal. Stiles’s father pushed the door open and grey early-morning light spilled through the windows. Allison heard her Commander make a soft sound in his throat as he glanced around the room, still filled with a child’s toys. Stiles sat on the bed and it creaked. If he cried, no one drew attention to it.

Derek gently dropped to his knees as Stiles’s father took off Stiles’s socks and tucked him in. As his father smoothed over his hair Derek injected Stiles with a sedative, followed by two vitamin booster shots. Allison swallowed as Derek smoothed his thumb over Stiles’s vein. 

“There,” Stiles slurred with a sleepy grin, “feel better, Derek?” 

Derek’s ears were red and he pinched Stiles’s side right before the Commander slipped unconscious. A harsh exhale behind her made Allison jump and she turned in time to see Peter avert his eyes. There were a few heartbeats of silence where they all just listened to Stiles breathe, evenly and finally _home_. 

“I can set you up downstairs.” His father regarded them warily. “I’ve got some sleeping bags and pillows. Meet me down in the living room, where you— where you were before.” 

Allison nodded. She herded the crew down the stairs and stripped out of her armor. Isaac and Lydia followed her example while Peter and Derek waited. 

“Who’s going to take first shift?” Derek regarded Allison and Peter severely. “Peter, you look like you’re about to pass out. You can take the third shift.” 

Peter saluted as sarcastically as he could manage whilst yawning. 

Stiles’s father came down the stairs with his arms full of blankets and pillows. Derek and Allison helped him spread them out on the floor. Peter immediately took one of the far corners and didn’t bother to pull up a blanket before he was unconscious. Derek’s hands had a slight tremor when he scratched his face. Despite wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep for a lifetime, Allison pushed Derek toward the pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. 

“I’ll take first shift.” Derek’s shoulders slumped with relief. Before he could protest out of duty, Allison held up her hand. “I’ll wake you up in three hours. You need the rest, doctor. Besides,” she smiled with a wink, “you’re more cuddly than I am.” 

Derek rolled his eyes with a grumble but kicked off his pants and pulled off his uniform shirt. Lydia and Isaac pretended to be asleep as he laid beside them, his instinct wanting to be near those he considered pack. Sure, it was an ancestral instinct that no longer served a purpose, but Allison saw how Derek was happier when he was close to the crew, when he could let them use his shoulders as pillows and take his body heat. Well, he was happy in his unique, dour way. 

Allison stretched and took her place at the entrance to the room. The singular sun crept higher in the sky and lit up Earth with so much color. Blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds and green _grass_ just growing on the _ground_ like it was common. The stairs creaked and Allison turned quickly to see Stiles’s father. 

He held both of his hands up in what was apparently the universal symbol for surrender and peace. Allison’s lips quirked up a bit.

“Sorry to spook ya.” The lines in his face were more severe when he was alone. His mouth was thin and his eyes were glassy. “You’re miss Argent, right?” 

Allison recoiled at the inherent _wrongness_ of a member of Stiles’s family being so formal with her. 

“Please, you can call me Allison, Mr. Stilinski.” 

Stiles’s father’s lips quirked into a smile echoed with years of grief. 

“As long as you call me John.” Allison nodded and John waved her over to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. She sat despite that it was made out of more _weak wood_ that could break at any moment. He sat opposite of her and rubbed his hand over his mouth, his eyes catching on her universal translator. “Is… Stiles was really your Commander?”

“He _is_ our Commander.” 

In the other room Peter made soft noises in his sleep. Derek slept soundly with Isaac’s cheek mashed against his shoulder and Lydia’s arm looped through his. Allison sat with John in his dusty kitchen and watched the older man’s hands tremble. 

“Could you…” He clenched his hands into fists. “Could you show me?” 

Allison couldn’t help but think of Stiles, how she met him outside of their test at the Academy. Even when they ate spicy noodles at Allison’s favorite market he had an underlying determination to understand, to adapt, and improve. She saw it reflected back in his father’s eyes to a lesser extent. She swallowed, her throat tight, and went to get her PADD. 

::::

Finstock was elbow deep in alloy and plasma when an overly cheerful voice made him fumble with his wrench. 

“Excuse me, are you Mr. Robert Finstock?” 

Finstock e twisted from his perch to see a young woman waving up at him from the ground. Finstock grumbled and stopped the centrifuge, too irked to shape anything now that some interloper had decided to waste his time. He slid down the ladder and landed with a gruff _thud_. 

The girl had big, dark eyes and milky skin. She had a PADD with a stylus at the ready and Finstock pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought the Argents understood that when he didn’t want visitors, that included the phoney puff-propaganda journalists they’d host. He viciously unlatched the advanced optics around his eyes, making them spring off one magnification at a time until the giant spectacles were deconstructed in his hands. 

She was still beaming at him with a sugary-sweet smile. 

“First off,” Finstock jabbed his finger in her direction, “call me Finstock and _never_ call me Robert. Second, what the hell do you want? I’m busy.” 

Her smile never dimmed as she rocked on her heels. 

“I, wow, uh, I mean— you’re the Argent’s top engineer, right? You make perfect ships.” She sighed dreamily like she was talking about a dashing hero and not a sweaty, squishy engineer who just wanted more coffee and less talking. She ran her nimble fingers through her inky black hair that moved like mercury. She fixed him with a naive, determined stare. “If I were a ship, how would you modify me to be perfect?” 

Finstock paused. Usually the journalists just wanted to know how great the Argents were, how perfect their vision of peaceful and militarized order was. They were always pretty and just a tad dim. This one… she looked the part, but Finstock didn’t like that their focus had been shifted to _him_. He just liked money, and the Argents had _a lot_ of money. Was that so bad? 

He ground his teeth and raked his eyes over her. 

“My ships don’t have bad posture,” he walked around her, hating how her grin only widened, “you favor your right side, my ships are equally strong. Your muscles are reflective of your favoritism to your right side, and your peripheral vision,” he flicked her ear, “is shit.” She swayed when he pushed her shoulder gently. “Your balance needs a lot of work. And are you always this out of breath? You’ll need more durability and power than _that_.” 

His parents had wanted him to work for the Federation. There was honor in that kind of work. Finstock thought rebellion was a good idea and why not sell his brain to the highest bidder? Why not get fat on the best food and drink? Why not get the _most_ out of life? But as the years went on… as the calls from his parents lessened and the pride curdled into guilt… 

Finstock wasn’t typically mean to people he didn’t know or didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t stand this journalist and her soft smile as she bowed her head. 

“Thank you _so much_ , Mr. Rob— I mean, Finstock.” She clutched her PADD close to her. “This means so much to me, thank you, thank you, _thank you_!” 

She rushed out of his laboratory before Finstock could get in the last, childish word. He sighed, too lazy to chase after her. _Oh well,_ he remembered shrugging off the memory of the girl, _that will show the Argents to never send journalists my way._

The next day when he ventured out of his quarters he didn’t expect to see the journalist jogging with the Weapons Division. She was dressed in their uniforms, sweat dripping down her chest and back, and— her right arm tied behind her back and weights strapped to her left arm and leg. She caught his gaze and waved. That was how Finstock met Kira Yukimura. 

Years passed and Finstock only grew older and softer. 

He scrutinized his reflection as he dragged a blade across his lathered skin. He usually stuck to electric razors and even then he did a haphazard job. But that morning he woke up early, prepared his best clothes, and shaved with a blade to get as close to his skin. He splashed his face with the cold water that he was awarded for the last fleet he designed. He pulled on his suit and adjusted his platinum cufflinks. 

The knock on his door landed exactly at six. He smiled and shook his head as he opened his door to see Kira Yukimura. She took a step back, her eyes on his body. 

“Whoa.” She beamed. “You dressed up.” 

Finstock ignored how his ears flushed bright fuschia. He shrugged. 

“It’s your big day.” Finstock adjusted his collar. “I want to look my best.” 

The base was hushed and their walk was completed in comfortable silence, their shoulders brushing up against each other as they headed for Chris and Victoria Argent’s private compound. The closer they got the quicker Kira’s breaths became until Finstock squeezed her shoulder. She nodded and slowed her breath, her cheeks dusted with an iridescent flush. The doors opened and Chris Argent seemed to tower above them despite being Finstock’s height. 

He had dark hair and silver-blue eyes, and his smiles were slick and perfect. He was dressed formally and he held out his hand for Kira to take. 

“Good morning, Kira.” Chris eyed Finstock. “And Finstock is your witness? Wonderful. Victoria is getting everything set up in the atrium. Let’s eat, you’ll want something in your stomach for this.” 

The Argent Empire had a sizeable territory in the universe and enough wealth to be an independent entity with no ties to other governments or nations. They had been at peace for centuries, but also were the lead developers in weapons and ship technology. The word _soldier_ was replaced with Weapons Technician, Weapons Strategist, or Weapons Researcher, even though anyone with eyes could put together the uniforms, drills, and know that they were looking at were soldiers. 

Kira was a Weapons Strategist. 

After a hearty breakfast, Chris led them to the atrium. The floor was smooth slabs of stone and Victoria, the reigning leader of the Argent Empire, stood tall in a tank-top and slacks. A large gourd sloshed with void-black ink and Victoria held a ceremonial dagger in her hand. Finstock made sure his knees didn’t lock as Kira grinned. 

“Kira Yukimura,” Victoria’s voice echoed around the atrium and Finstock could hear Kira bite down a squeal, “today you’re being recognized as a true Argent asset. We’re making you Chief Strategist. Do you find this acceptable?” 

“Yes.” Kira bounced on the balls of her feet. “Yes, I do.” 

“Great. Have a seat.” 

Finstock never bothered to learn about the Weapons Division short of the rule _never say soldier_. He was an engineer, he _designed_ , and he only asked for materials and money. Life as an engineer was simple, you did a good job, you got paid, you did a great job, you got paid _and_ could ask for something special. 

Weapons Division was different, according to Kira. It was a lot of physical training, simulations, and camaraderie built on shared pain and strict rules. Kira called it team-building exercises. To Finstock, it sounded more like brainwashing. 

Promotions and ascending rank took hard work. And to those who really impressed, the Empress herself would carve the Argent Creed into the skin of those who deserved the ink. Victoria and Chris were covered in intricate ink that spoke of their accomplishments and history. Kira sat on the stone table and Victoria began to carve into her skin with slow, methodical precision. 

Finstock made sure to keep breathing deeply through his nose so he didn’t pass out at the sight of Kira’s blood pooling on the floor. She didn’t make a sound while all Finstock wanted to do was scream. 

His parents said that the Argent Empire was a dictatorship. That it would only be a matter of time before they took their rhetoric of militarized peace and spread it, forcefully, to expand their territory. _Anyone with half a brain can see that,_ they’d said. Finstock shrugged it off. The Argents could pay five times the Federation rates. He swallowed thickly and felt the sticky feeling of fear that he’d done so well at repressing bubble up his spine. _It’s not my problem,_ he’d always reasoned. What the Argents wanted to do with their technology wasn’t his business. Besides, they’d been at peace for so long, that had to count for something. 

Victoria flicked a squishy piece of Kira’s flesh off her knife and it landed on Finstock’s shoe.

_Why is the word soldiers banned?_

::::

_“Don’t look at me, Commander. I follow orders from you.”_

Boyd knew that others were feeling fear and maybe a tint of regret as Admiral Fox’s armada arrived. Allison took Boyd aside as Stiles spoke to someone named Peter. 

“Boyd, I’m having Isaac enter the coordinates for the Argent Territory, more specifically, my parents’ bunker. They’ll probably pick you up beforehand, but tell them,” Allison glanced to Stiles quickly and her voice was wire-thin, “tell them I’m fulfilling my Warrior’s Promise to the Commander. They’ll know what it means. It should… it should make things easier when you enter the territory.”

What Allison tried to say was, _“They’ll know not to kill you.”_

Boyd hoped she was right. Stiles used his communicator to speak his final message as he ran with Derek, Allison, and Lydia to the transporter room. Isaac was already gone, and the Commander met Boyd’s eyes. 

“Beacon, this is your Commander speaking,” Stiles breathed as Isaac locked onto them. “Admiral Fox will open fire on this ship in a matter of minutes. The Federation will say that I’ve been holding my crew hostage, which is not true. They will say that I’m a dangerous being from an unknown planet. This… is true.” Stiles stood on the transporter deck, Derek, Lydia, and Allison beside him. His eyes watered and Boyd suddenly realized how much he _didn’t_ know about his Commander, how _young_ he looked as his throat broke over the intercom. “I’ve finally found a way home and I’m going to take it. If you… if any of you want to use the escape pods to join Admiral Fox, I understand. I couldn’t have asked for a better crew… I’m… I’m going to miss all of you.” 

And just like that, they were gone. 

Boyd waited forty-seconds to allow any escape pods a chance to launch. None did. He evaded, and took off toward the Argent territories. No one had time to share their fears, to second-guess the collective decision to stay as a crew without their Commander. Boyd flew them where the Federation couldn’t go with his own words echoing in his mind. 

_“Don’t look at me, Commander. I follow orders from you.”_

He used those words as an anchor as time passed in the Argent territories. 

Erica yawned against his chest and Boyd pulled the blankets tighter around them. The illuminated floor panels glowed softly, mimicking morning light in the barracks. Boyd cradled Erica to his chest as the rest of _The Beacon’s_ crew stirred in the bunk-beds around him. One by one eyes opened and yawns were swallowed. 

In the early morning, while still blinking sleep away, it was easy to pretend that he was back in the Academy barracks. Even getting changed in front of the crew felt natural, if he thought of it in military school terms. Once full consciousness kicked in and the doors to the barracks opened, there was no denying where he was. 

The Argent Territories carried a lot of rumors. They never had visitors and any journalists who ventured in sometimes spent years waiting for approval and vetting. Some rumors painted them as cruel military dictators who had their people living in fear. Others said that they were just secretive, hiding the most brilliant minds behind a massive army. 

As far as Boyd could tell, the Argent Territories were a technological oasis. He’d never _dreamed_ of machinery and technology that ran so smoothly, that looked so pristine and chrome. Ships would fly overhead, silent and swift. It had been months and Boyd still stared, jaw agape, at the airships that looked more like animals than space vessels. 

Chris Argent promised that they were not going to be handed over to the Federation and that no harm would fall them while they were within the Argent Territories.

Still, they always travelled in groups of five if they had to leave the barracks. Boyd kicked his feet up as the entire crew shuffled to the mess tables. Waiting was sometimes worse than a death sentence. 

Erica pushed her rations around her plate. The gloom grew day by day, the awful questions of _have we been abandoned_ echoing in their minds. Unable to use their communicators for fear of being tracked by the Federation, all they had was speculation and eavesdropping on the people who lived under the Argent domain. Most of them were newsreels, _Commander Stilinski: Traitor to the Federation._

On rare occurrences, and never from a main newsource, Boyd has seen _Commander Stilinski: Traitor to the Federation, Hero to the People._

“Hey.” Erica hit her hand down on the table to get the crew’s attention. “Remember this one?” 

She took a deep breath and began to sing, a warbled tune that she’d heard the Commander hum when he thought he was alone. Others joined in, providing words, and soon the entire table was thundering with music in a language none of them could identify. Boyd might have been singing a bloodthirsty war song, but it didn’t taste like one. It tasted like the way Stiles laughed when he was surprised, or how he’d grip a crew mate's shoulder to tell them they did an exceptional job. 

It tasted like walking the halls of the ship and hearing the hum of the engines. 

As his throat pushed the music into the mess hall, Boyd turned to stare at the exposed lavender skies. He was aware that the Weapons Division members were staring at them, he knew that surely word would get back to the Argents about how the crew of the Beacon merrily sang their way through breakfast. Boyd gazed past the seven moons and the splattering of stars. 

_I hope you made it home, Commander._

::::

Lydia was the first awake when Stiles’s father (“Please, call me John”) started shuffling around the kitchen. She carefully slid out of Isaac and Allison’s grip and gingerly stepped over Derek. Peter stirred restlessly but didn’t open his eyes. Lydia crept over the soft carpet and knocked on the doorway so she didn’t scare John. 

When he turned his shoulders still twitched.

“Good morning, Lydia.” 

“Good morning, John.” Lydia was the best English speaker of their group and she felt pride swell in her chest when John rarely had to ask her to elaborate or speak slower. She watched him open up a cold, white storage space and take out cartons and small tubs of… substance. “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.” He leaned to peer out of the doorway and counted under his breath, then glanced back at the cold box. “I’ll need to go grocery shopping today.” The words _where is your processor_ died on her tongue when John opened a carton to reveal off-white ovals. He grabbed a bowl and cracked the oval in half over it. Lydia gasped, and John flinched. He shot her a look, contained panic. “Oh God, what is it?” 

His unspoken plea of _I thought it was over_ roared around them. 

“What is that? What did you just do?” Lydia pointed at the bowl, at the gelatinous substance that held a slimy yellow orb. “Are you going to _eat_ that?” 

John looked down at his bowl. 

“Well… not like this, I have to cook it first. I’m guessing you’ve never had eggs before.” 

He explained what he was doing, slowly, and with words that were tinged with pain. He kept glancing toward the stairs the farther along in his explanation he got. The others woke slowly, drawn in by the sound and smells coming from the kitchen. Isaac was peppering John with questions and was fascinated by the use of fire to prepare organic material from _animals_ for sustenance. 

“Before you eat anything,” Derek growled and unzipped his bag, “take your stabilizers.” 

Allison and Peter were the last ones to stumble in. Derek injected them first, then beckoned Lydia and Isaac over. Peter rubbed his arm where the syringe had been moments before. 

“Where’s Stiles?” 

Derek rolled his eyes and gently injected Isaac with his stabilizer. 

“Asleep. Where else would he be?”

Peter usually had biting retorts at the ready, stinging and sharp. Instead he was silent, his face slack as he turned to gaze at the stairs that led to the Commander’s bedroom. The chatter of breakfast-making ebbed and flowed, but Lydia had stopped listening to John and started paying attention to Peter. 

If Lydia had to pick a lover Stiles would take she never would have predicted Peter Hale. He wasn’t kind, he wasn’t soft, and he wasn’t virtuous. Yet, the longer she studied him and compared him to the Commander… she realized that perhaps he suited Stiles better than she initially anticipated. 

Stiles wasn’t soft, entirely kind, or virtuous. The Commander could switch gears within a second to pursue and take down a target. She’d watch him coldly study an enemy and pick apart all moves and motivations until he had the upperhand. It was easy to forget the severity Commander Stilinski could bring when he laughed so easily and was happy to lend an ear to whoever needed help. 

Peter Hale was a criminal who did whatever he had to in order to survive. 

Stiles was the same in a way.

Lydia’s throat tightened just as the stairs creaked and the Commander stumbled down. He was dressed in odd clothes, they must have been John’s. He smiled and Peter’s entire body relaxed when Stiles’s shoulder brushed his as he entered the kitchen. 

“Oh God, I forgot about _cooking._ Dad, have they picked your brain about it yet? I totally… I totally forgot.” Stiles let Derek tug on his arm. “You guys,” he addressed them with a luminous grin that was unrestrained in happiness and affection, “I can’t wait for you to _taste_ it.” 

The longer Lydia really _looked_ at Stiles she wondered how no one had immediately seen that Stiles wasn’t _from_ anywhere within the Federation’s data records. By all accounts… Stiles should have died within days of exposures to such harsh beings and environments… yet here he was, explaining the different way to prepare eggs that birds laid. 

Derek, who must have been the first to really understand that Stiles wasn’t just an exceptional First Officer and later extraordinary Commander, loaded his syringe. 

“I’m decreasing your dose of stabilizers, Stiles.” Derek snapped his fingers in front of Stiles’s face to make him pay attention. Stiles rolled his eyes but his smile never faded. “Little by little so your body will adjust to Earth’s. The entire process should take three weeks.” 

_And then you’re home._ Derek injected Stiles with the stabilizer. The doctor’s shoulders were heavy and once the injection was done he let Stiles’s arm fall away with a soft huff. _Then we’ll go and you’ll be free._

Isaac helped John move a few extra chairs in from the living room and Lydia’s knees were mashed up against Peter’s and Allison was squashed between Derek and John. Aside from John and Stiles, the rest of the crew was noticeably nervous as they stared at the yellowed eggs with sprinkles of spices atop it. Stiles took his fork and stabbed into the pillowy food and swallowed it. 

His eyes widened. He grabbed his father’s arm and squeezed, a little too hard judging by John’s wince. 

“ _Dad_ , this is so _good_.” Stiles swallowed with a loud click in his throat. “Could we get pizza and orange soda tonight? Please?” 

John’s answering smile was tired and awed. 

“Sure thing, kiddo.” 

Lydia closed her eyes when she gently put the scrambled egg in her mouth. The flavor was… pleasant, and so strong it was almost overwhelming. When she opened her eyes everyone else was eating, except Peter who just stared at Stiles with a ghostly smile. 

::::

Isaac was certain something was wrong. He knew nothing of Earth, of its customs, of its history… but as the days passed the itch of _wrongness_ grew under his soft skin. 

He liked Earth. It was beautiful, unbelievably lush with plants, sun, and so much water it boggled Isaac’s mind. The food took so long to prepare but somehow that made it taste even better. There was odd weather patterns and so much media Stiles wanted to show them, to explain to them, that it was honestly a tad overwhelming at times. 

Isaac wished Earth were advanced enough for them to leave the house. 

Stiles couldn’t leave because of the universal translator that had fused to his head when he was first taken. It was too bright, too big, and too _weird_ , Stiles’s father had gently said. Stiles had nodded with a smile that was too rigid. His father left to get food and call out of work. Stiles had watched him out of the front door for two long heartbeats before he turned to them. 

“Come on, we’ll go in the woods.” 

He went to the backdoor and pushed it open. Morning light from the singular sun made the grass light up bright green. The hum of insects was lyrical as Stiles stepped foot outside. His gait stuttered, his bare feet pale between the blades of green and brown. His shoulders were only tense for a moment before he turned and beckoned them outside. 

Isaac followed. Of course he followed. 

Stiles took them far. He walked confidently and Isaac’s brain knew that this is where Stiles belonged, but he couldn’t help but find the sight unnatural. Stiles held branches back for and chattered on like he always did… but somehow Isaac wanted him to be back on the Beacon, walking the corridors with a PADD and illuminated panels casting light on his face. 

“I used to come and play back here all the time.” Stiles stopped with his hands on his hips as he gazed up at the trees, squinting to block out the sun. “I remember it being bigger.” 

They came to running water, running _natural_ water that just cut across the ground. It had been one thing to see what Stiles called an _ocean_ from the Beacon. This was real, this was real and _Stiles was stepping into it._ He shivered and turned. 

“It’s not that deep.” 

He held his hand out. Peter was the first to take it, wading into the water that came up to his knees. Allison was next, then Derek, then Lydia. Isaac shivered on the shore. He let his toe touch the water and it was so cold. 

“Isaac.” He looked up to see his Commander smiling. “I got you.” 

“Right.” Isaac took Stiles’s hand and squeezed. “R-Right.” He gripped Stiles tightly and his Commander slung his arm around his waist. He walked with him through the chilled waters, over the smooth rocks that tickled the bottom of Isaac’s feet, and within a few breaths they were on the other side. “That… that wasn’t so bad.” 

Stiles smiled and gave Isaac a little shake. 

“Just a little further.” They stepped over leaves and rocks to find a clearing where the sun shined down on… what looked to be a pile of sticks made into a wall. Stiles laughed, loud enough to frighten the birds. “My friend Scott and I used to play here. We used to pretend we were in the army, like we were big and strong.” He snorted. “Stupid.” 

Sometimes, there was nothing to say. Allison was the first to go up to him and drape her arm around his shoulder. Stiles leaned his head against hers and his breaths became long and shuddered. 

Isaac suddenly wished that they’d never found Earth, that Stiles hadn’t come back to see how things had changed, how the world wasn’t as big as he remembered. Isaac wanted them all to be back on the Beacon. Isaac thought it with such a viciousness that he recoiled from himself, immediately falling backwards. He hit the ground with a soft _whump_. 

Green leaves framed the periwinkle sky. Isaac breathed deep and shook out his limbs. He sat up and failed to fight down the blush when everyone stared at him. 

“Sorry,” he ducked his head. “I lost my balance.” 

Lydia rolled her eyes and helped him up. They returned and that night John built a fire in the backyard. It crackled and sent up sparks that lit up Allison’s skin in a way that made Isaac’s mouth dry. Stiles gathered up thin sticks and dug around the bag of food his father brought back. He handed them sticks and opened the bag. 

“Crew, I’d like you to meet marshmallows. Marshmallows, crew. Crew, marshmallows.” 

Marshmallows were very sweet and fluffy. When Isaac tried one before putting it in the fire, Stiles laughed at how it made Isaac’s cheeks expand. They were a dessert with no nutritional value and were meant to eat after being scorched by fire. They were short one chair so Stiles sat on Peter’s lap. 

He regaled stories to his father until his voice got tired, and then Allison took over. They went in circles, telling story after story until the fire had dwindled down to embers. Isaac glanced over at Stiles as Lydia explained the intricate details of analyzing ancient texts. 

Stiles’s eyes were aimed at the night sky. The moonlight left a light gleam on his translator. Isaac wished he could have stayed within that moment, stories in the air and Stiles’s attention on the stars. 

::::

Kira Yukimura was from nowhere. 

According to the kind ladies at the orphanage, her planet had gone through terrible tragedy, genocide and famine. Kira had no memory of it, only the orphanage. She mourned the parents she never knew, the planet she couldn’t recall, but it was a distant pain, one written on a page and not her heart. 

She’d been ten years old when Kate Argent came to visit. Kira wasn’t smart like some of her genius peers, and she wasn’t good at being charming. The only thing she could brag about was being picked first for recess. Kira was the _best_ at playing games and winning. 

Kate didn’t go for the smart or charming orphans. She only wanted Kira. Kira remembered how Kate had complimented her speed and flexibility. She felt the callouses on her palms with a smile when Kira explained they came from climbing the mountains. 

_“You’re very talented Kira,”_ Kate stated with such confidence that Kira was too stunned to correct her, _“how would you like to pledge yourself to the Argents? It will be hard work, kid, but I promise, once you make it to Weapons Division, you’ll want for nothing.”_

Kira hugged her as an answer. 

She owed the Argents everything, and she aimed to repay them with every breath. 

Kira leapt off the ridge, staff in hand, and shrieked with laughter as she used her weapon to fly down a zipline. Her trainees chased after her, silent and determined. Kira spun around as soon as she landed, her boots kicking up dust and stones as she deflected a hit from a very determined Demetrius, and a sharp _sting_ of a lash against her thigh made Kira hiss. 

“Very _good_ , Jaylah,” Kira sang at the young woman who’s indigo skin made her pale scars look like intricate decorations. “Very good, excellent stance and but you’ve got to remember your footwork.” 

With a quick twist and a swing, Kira and Jaylah sprawled out on the ground while the group continued their chase, all of them sweaty, bruised, and hoping to land at least a few more hits on their instructor before—

The final siren rang and Kira came to an abrupt halt. Her students fell over themselves to immediately come to a stop. Kira helped Jaylah to her feet and brushed her off. 

“Great job, guys. You did great out there and Demetrius, you’re really getting faster, don’t think I didn’t notice!” She was happy that when she hugged her team that they didn’t stare quite as long as they did on their first day. Kira jogged to the Administration building for a sonic shower, but not before she shouted over her shoulder, “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow!” 

Kira knew that _smiling_ wasn’t an expression that people associated with the Weapons Division. It had been the one habit that Kira couldn’t break. No matter how exhausted or bruised, Kira smiled with a cheery, “see you tomorrow!” Kira showered, letting the hot air cleanse her skin, and changed into lounge clothes. Instead of retreating to the mess hall or Administrator's barracks, she jogged across town to the Engineer Borough. 

She knocked before gripping the latch on the warehouse’s door and pulled. 

“Good evening, Finstock!” Kira’s sing-song voice echoed in the rafters. Finstock looked up from his easel, a pencil in his mouth, protractor in his hand. He grinned, his teeth impressive as he stretched. “How are the designs?” 

“Eh,” Finstock waved his hand carelessly at his sketches as he hugged her. “They’ll be waiting for me. How are you?” He pulled back and his eyes narrowed on the lash marks on her arms and legs. “How’d you get these?” 

“Oh, this? They’re from the group I’m training, I’m so _proud_ of them.” Kira spun and twisted to look at the bruises down her back. “They were able to hit me so _much_ today, I didn’t think we were going to make this much progress for another week or so, but they really went beyond my expectations.” She finished her twirl and caught Finstock’s flicker of dismay. She stilled. “What?” 

“Doesn’t…” The engineer’s eyes were on her welts, his eyes critical. “Doesn’t that hurt?” 

“A little.” Kira was used to Finstock frowning, but never so deeply and never _at her_. This frown was different from the ones that really meant he was smiling, the ones that he wore to keep himself from laughing at a joke that tickled him, it was softer and sadder. _Disappointed._ Kira snapped her fingers. “Don’t worry. It’s just surface damage!” She skimmed her fingers over her limbs. “It doesn’t limit my dexterity or movement. All systems are online and functional.” 

Finstock’s lips twitched and he rolled his eyes. 

“You’re not a ship.” 

“Maybe not,” Kira bumped his shoulder with her hand, “but I get stronger if I keep looking at myself that way. Thanks to you.” 

Finstock smiled, soft and shy in a way that made Kira think it was private, an inside joke they shared. He waved her over to the nook. 

“You hungry?” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “I don’t even want to fathom the kind of energy you burn. Take your pick at any meal. Actually, scratch that, eat _two_ meals. Eat your fill. I got a new processor. It’s got all the additions and flavor settings.” 

Kira’s eyes widened at the sleek processor. The Administration building didn’t have one that fancy. She swallowed and Finstock went back to his easel. She picked a lavish dish with meat that melted in her mouth. She pulled up a chair next to Finstock, full and sated. 

Robert “Bobby” Finstock was a paintbrush. He was delicate, he created beautiful artwork, and his talent laid in shaping beauty into weaponized practicality. His hands were not calloused, in fact, they were quite soft. They were like the silk sheets that Kate had gifted Kira upon her passing the Weapons Division entrance exam. She’d handed Kira the bundle and smiled, _“This will be the only softness you’ll ever know.”_

Kira knew Finstock and he was soft. 

If Finstock was a paintbrush then Kira was a hammer. She was hardened, balanced steel, and a force of nature even when she was unarmed. Her fists were iron, her knuckles prominent. Kira was always working to be faster and hit harder. She was a blunt but an effective tool. 

Finstock enjoyed luxury. He’d earned it with his ship designs that never failed to make Kira’s stomach twist every time she got a chance to watch them fly. She was sure he was wrapped in silk every night. She wasn’t positive, but he might even have a _water_ shower. 

Hammers were not luxurious or soft. 

She sat beside him and watched him sketch long, elegant lines. He was perfecting a scouting ship, so fast that he as working with the physicists to test the natural limits because “Rules were meant to be broken,” he declared with a wink. He spoke in melodic equations and theories while his hand conducted yet another brilliant piece. Kira understood none of it, but she enjoyed listening and watching the way it made the deep lines at the corners of Finstock’s eyes dance. 

Kira’s eyes drifted shut and she hoped that if she were to dream, that she’d dream of paintbrushes and smooth caresses of color.

Soft, warm hands shook her awake after what felt like days later. Kira startled and her eyes flew open to Finstock’s bemused face. 

“Easy,” Finstock’s silk-soft hands were on her cheek and shoulder. Kira’s eyes widened because her throat was sore and her lungs seemed frozen, “Just breathe, all right? In,” he inhaled and she followed, her lungs stuttering as they struggled to obey, “and out.” 

Kira kept breathing until it stopped burning. Once her lungs stopped seizing Finstock removed his hands from her. She had to bite down on an earnest and clumsy request for him to keep touching her. She rubbed her eyes. 

“How long was I asleep? What happened?” 

“About five hours.” Finstock’s fingers twitched and wrinkles formed between his brows. “You… you started screaming and choking. Scared me half to death.” 

“M’sorry.” Kira took her fist away from her eyes and that was when she saw Finstock’s sketch. It was torn, a sloppy, jagged line jerking downwards and his pencil was on the floor. “Oh no,” Kira swallowed and she was certain that if she hadn’t just recovered from struggling to breathe through mindless panic, she would have been crying. “I ruined it.” 

Finstock looked up at her in alarm and followed her eyes. 

“What, that? Whatever,” Finstock pulled her up and Kira was relieved when he steered her away from the easel. “It’s nothing I can’t do again.” He said it easily, like anyone could do what he did, like it was nothing. Kira nodded because she didn’t trust herself to speak. Finstock went to the processor and within moments she had a piping hot cup of tea. It was sharp, citrus, and it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. “Still don’t remember them, huh?”

Kira shook her head. Her bunkmates complained about it all the time as if it was something Kira could control. Her screams were blood curdling, as if she were stuck in a loop of agony. She never made sounds like that in combat. The only dreams she ever remembered were the ones about paintbrushes and the cool, slick feeling of obscene color on her skin. 

The thought of _those_ dreams made her cheeks redden. 

“I should get going.” Kira checked her watch but didn’t bother reading the time. “More training and bruises.” She stretched, arching her back and then bending to touch her toes, then melted into a split. She had to keep limber, to not let the welts make her stiff. She glanced up at Finstock who was staring, his cup held at a perilous angle. “Thank you for the food.”

“Wh— oh, you’re welcome.” His shoulders jumped when Kira rolled onto her back and stretched back onto her two feet. “Just don’t go telling everyone. I don’t need a bunch of moochers knocking down my door.” 

He walked her to the big warehouse door. When she pulled it open a rush of cold morning wind made her muscles tighten. 

“It’s okay if I knock, though… right?” 

Finstock blinked, and he gently squeezed her wrist. 

“Yeah. Knock anytime.” 

Cold winds helped take the red out of Kira’s face. She took her time back towards the barracks, and that was when she heard the oddest sound on the wind. Kira rubbed her fingers over her tattooes, trying to chase her shivers away as she followed a song. It was a series of tones, a song, in a language unlike anything she’d ever heard before.

She crept in the back alleyways until she got to the “guest barracks.” That’s what everyone called them… the crew that followed Commander Stilinski aboard _The Beacon_. It was barely morning and she peeked into the windows. The crew woke slowly, but they were singing, soft and with morning rasps, but together it made such a beautiful sound. 

::::

Chris always saved the best for last when he had to do check-ups on the engineers. 

It had been a morning like any other. He left with a lovely kiss from Victoria, began his inspections and reports on new ships, on pushing the limits of speed, defense, and firepower. No one fascinated him the way Robert Finstock did. 

“— it was simple once I really looked at it, you know? Nothing really _beats_ nature. Animals have evolved and died off in a certain way for a reason. That’s why I’ve been going out on those excursions to the flats, to really study the animals out there.” Finstock spoke eagerly and always moved his hands rapidly, constantly slapping his fingers on a sketch or Chris’s arm. “The engine is modeled off the sand skimmers, their muscular and respiratory systems are _fascinating_ when you dissect them.” 

Finstock had a bit of oil caught in his hair. His shirt sleeves were bunched up at his elbows and his breath smelled of caffeine when he moved to the next ship. 

The other engineers were great for upgrades and maintenance. Finstock was an artist.

Victoria loved Finstock for his simplicity. The man loved money and petty luxuries. He was easy to satisfy. 

After an hour of excited explanations and demonstrations, Chris sat in Finstock’s private home. It was expansive, had sleek and comfortable furniture, and every appliance was the most up-to-date version. Finstock sat in his carved out space of luxury without an air of superiority. In fact, it was as if he didn’t even notice. 

Chris cleared his throat. 

“Stunning work as always, Finstock. That skimmer, we should start testing that out by the end of the week. It would make an excellent scouting ship.” 

Finstock saluted with a wink.

“Aye, aye, sir.” 

Chris smiled, letting himself laugh before he got back to business. 

“So, what can Victoria and I get for you?” It was an age-old question. It was how Finstock’s house had become so decadently furnished, how he had the best the galaxy had to offer. Sometimes Finstock followed odd whims, or he’d just name a credit amount and Chris would wire it to his account. Instead of answering, Finstock hesitated, his throat bobbing until Chris furrowed his brow. “Finstock?” 

“Um.” Finstock laughed, an awkward swell of noise that quickly fell into breathless silence. “I completely forgot. I had an idea and everything. Tell you what, once I remember it, I’ll let you know.” 

Chris stood with a nod. 

“Of course. As always, lovely work.” 

Finstock nodded, his nose already back in his sketchbook. The week passed uneventfully and he hadn’t thought of Finstock’s odd pause until Victoria brought it up. She had been lounging in the clay bath, a wet cloth over her eyes, when her voice called out to him. 

“Chris?” 

“Yes, my dear?” 

“What happened to Finstock’s request? I didn’t see any funds move from our account.” 

Chris kicked off his boots and stilled on the bed. He made a noise, enough to make his wife remove the cloth to wipe the clay out of her eyes. 

“He… he didn’t know what he wanted.” Chris swallowed. “He still hasn’t gotten back to me about it. Odd, isn’t it? He’s never that hard to figure out.” 

Victoria hummed.. She flicked bits of clay out from under her fingernails. 

“That means he’s found something he thinks he can’t have. Or something he believes cannot be bought.” Victoria stretched and she flashed Chris the kind of predatory grin that made his throat pleasantly tight. “Pay attention to what catches his eye. I’m sure we’ll think of something to give our favorite engineer.” 

Despite her casual tone, Chris knew that it was just another weight on his wife’s mind. The crew of _The Beacon_ had raised enough questions, the continued silence in regards to inquiries from the Federation, all in hopes of… helping their daughter with her pledge. With an Empire to run it was easy to not think about it. It was in the quiet moments when the weight returned. 

Chris felt it settle in his bones. He wrung his hands and took a breath, to ask just what the hell they were going to do with the not-refugees, not-criminals that had been living in their guest barracks for months. He saw his wife’s body tense, bracing for a question they both didn’t want to answer… and that was when Chris’s communicator chirped from his bed. 

He glanced at it and let it ring twice before he picked up. People knew not to call him once the work day was over unless it was _very_ important. Chris accepted the call and nearly dropped his communicator when his daughter’s face appeared on the screen. Chris felt as though his world had dropped out from under him as he gasped. 

_“Allison?”_

::::

Derek woke in the grey slivers of almost-morning. It had been two weeks and he still had to bite down the panic of _where am I what is this place_ every time he shook off sleep. He sat up gently, making sure not to disturb Isaac, Lydia, and Allison. He glanced over and saw that Peter was gone. 

A soft thump from above made Derek tense. He crept up the stairs and arrived in time to see Stiles bent over the toilet bowl. Peter was behind him, his claws gently pricking Stiles’s thin shirt as he vomited, his body shuddering. Derek pushed his way into the bathroom. He felt angry shame roil through him. He’d noticed the Commander had looked thinner, that the circles under his eyes were darkening. He firmly removed Peter’s hand so he could feel for Stiles’s pulse and clammy skin. 

“How long has this been going on, Commander?” 

Stiles shuddered and spit. Peter crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. 

“Two weeks.” Stiles turned to glare at Peter. Derek’s teeth elongated and cut his tongue. He’d let Stiles be sick for two weeks, _since they’d touched down on Earth_ , and hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t felt something was wrong, or had he simply willed himself not to see it? Peter rolled his eyes. “What? Idiots lie to doctors. You’re not an idiot.” 

Stiles flushed the toilet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His legs trembled and Peter offered him a hand up. Stiles took it. 

“It’s fine.” Once Stiles was on his feet he pushed past them. He only stumbled for one step before he straightened his posture. “Derek, you said it yourself. My body just has to adjust. That’s all this is. Adjustment.”

Derek shook his head.

“Stiles, this is… this is not just a few days of being sick, this is—”

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles’s voice was clipped and curt like a knife. “I’m fine. It’s not your job to worry about me anymore.” 

His eyes were like ice and the dismissal was clear as he closed his bedroom door behind him. Derek’s indignant anger was quelled when Peter sighed. His shoulders slumped and Derek deflated. 

Stiles hadn’t been able to leave the property. Though he never said it, Derek knew it was because of the translator. It was too big, too noticeable without a viable excuse. He was happy to entertain them, and his father was always cooking new things that Stiles would eat enthusiastically… but apparently rarely keep down. 

The Commander’s body was not adapting to Earth.

“He can’t stay.” Derek glanced at his uncle. He was used to Peter smirking at him and reveling in Derek’s confusing mixture of affection and embarrassment toward him. Peter’s eyes weren’t filled with sarcastic mirth that morning. He looked hollow and small when he met Derek’s eyes. “His body’s rejecting Earth… isn’t it?” 

They both didn’t need Derek to nod. They already knew the answer. Derek dug his claws into his palms. If only he’d figured out Stiles’s immune system sonner, maybe he should have broken his NDAs to at least see what research the Federation had on Stiles’s body… but he did the best that he could. The stabilizers had worked for Stiles before. 

He’d just been gone too long. 

“We have to get him back to the ship.” Derek’s voice broke, he already was dreading having to break this news to his Commander. “We’ll have to get back to a habitable environment for him—”

“No.” Peter’s voice was ragged and harsh. “It’s not your choice. It’s his.” 

Derek growled and he hadn’t shifted in _years_ but he felt as though he were moments away from losing himself to the Beast. 

“He will _die_ if he stays—”

“You didn’t see who took him.” Peter snarled and Derek stumbled back when his uncle’s face rippled in rage. “I found the man who abducted him. I watched footage of them fusing a translator to him without knowing if it would work or not. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old.” Peter covered his face with his hands and breathed deeply until his fangs receded. “He deserves to be home. If he wants to live here as long as he’s able to… that’s his decision.” 

In his short time of knowing him, Derek hadn’t known Peter to be anything but smarmy and indifferent. The birds started to sing. The others would wake soon… and Derek would have to nurse the ache in his teeth and chest, he’d have to think of what to say to his Commander, of how he’d—

Peter dropped to his knees and threw up in the toilet. 

Derek felt… adrift. All of his anxieties paused as his uncle wretched over the toilet. Peter sat back and when he refused to look at Derek, it clicked. 

“I thought,” Derek’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I thought mates were a myth.”

Peter flushed the toilet with a roll of his eyes. 

“So did I.” 

::::

When Peter was a young boy who was still afraid of his Beast, everything he knew about mates were what was written in fairytales. Mates were two halves of a whole, mates could feel each others pleasure and pain, and mates were a rarity to be celebrated and cherished. 

Peter brushed it off as bullshit like most of the things taught to him by his pack. He hated that his pack was too afraid to embrace their Beasts, to embrace their history as a part of them. Mates, Peter figured, was a romanticization. A farce. 

Stiles twisted above him, his hips stuttering as his cock jerked. He came, his lines of pleasure painting Peter’s chest. He ground against Peter’s pulsing knot, biting back whimpers as his glassy eyes met Peter’s. 

“Can you… you think you’ve got one more in you?” 

He smiled so brightly that Peter could almost ignore how skinny Stiles was, how his ribs burned his hands, and how he rarely slept longer than two hours. Peter swallowed and dragged his claws lightly down Stiles’s chest. 

“For you,” Peter growled and sat up, licking over the red marks he left behind, sucking a bruise above Stiles’s pounding heart, “anything.” 

It was late and they were both quiet on the floor of Stiles’s childhood bedroom. The rug made the back of Peter’s thighs itch, but he couldn’t care less, not when Stiles squeezed around his knot and sighed against Peter’s neck. Peter helped Stiles steady his hips, setting a slower rhythm. 

He felt the burn in Stiles’s belly, the way every breath against his neck made him shiver, made his cock slowly harden. Peter felt it like a ghost’s touch and he swallowed desperate whines as Stiles kissed him, his tongue and teeth gently taking Peter apart. He never bit too hard, he never scratched to make him bleed. Stiles was gentle to the point where Peter could hardly catch his breath. Stiles chased his pleasure, grinding back so that the knot would catch on his prostate—

“Oh.” Peter could hardly tell which way was up, not as Stiles whimpered into his mouth. “Oh, _Peter_ —” 

Peter’s claws dug into Stiles’s hips. Stiles finished again, his breath hiccuping in his chest. He squeezed _tight_ around Peter and Peter wanted to howl, he wanted to drag Stiles down and beg the Commander to bite him, to finish tying them together. 

“Please,” Peter whimpered mindlessly, “please, please, _please_ —” 

“Come on,” Stiles kissed him on the forehead. Somehow, that was what made the fog in Peter’s head clear, those soft lips on his forehead. His hips stuttered and tears burned his eyes when Stiles smiled against his skin. “I’ve got you, Peter.” 

Peter moaned and Stiles covered his mouth and giggled when the muffled sound tickled his skin. Peter fell back and pulled Stiles with him. Their breaths mingled together. Stiles kissed him lazily, tiny pecks that would ebb and flow to deeper, longer explorations on a whim. 

When Peter finally softened enough, Stiles didn’t immediately move away. Peter traced down Stiles’s spine and waited as his heartbeat slowed. He gently kissed Stiles’s knuckles and moved him to the side and used his undershirt to sloppily clean them. 

Stiles sat with his back against his bed. In the dark Peter could easily pretend they were back out in space, that they’d met up during a shore leave. Stiles smiled, his teeth glistening in the dark. Peter’s heart throbbed. He could pretend that this was just a means to an end, a hot, dirty fuck to get the release they needed before they went their seperate ways. 

Peter let his fingers drag down Stiles’s cheek, claws and all, in a gentle caress.

“You should do some stretches.” He dug his thumb into Stiles’s inner thigh, massaging his muscles. Stiles purred, smiling at him through hooded eyes. “We wouldn’t want you to cramp up.” 

Stiles snagged Peter’s wrist and dragged his teeth over the back of his hand. It was just a playful bite but Peter still felt his heart swell. 

“Aw. I love your pillow talk.” Stiles squeezed Peter’s hand and his knuckles were too prominent. Peter could see the tendons moving under the thin skin of his wrist as Stiles pulled himself to Peter. He wove his fingers through Peter’s hair and scratched just hard enough to make Peter’s eyes slip shut. “I’m gonna miss it.” 

Peter slipped away like he had the previous nights, but this time he remained awake. What most of the residents didn’t know, but he had a feeling Stiles’s father suspected, was that Stiles was the first to wake up out of all of them. He waited, until he was certain no one was stirring… then he’d creep down the stairs. 

Peter watched Stiles step over them to get to the back porch. The sky was just beginning to lighten, the air cold, and green grass covered in silver moisture. Stiles walked, limbs stiff, and tilted his head back. 

The world was silent in those fleeting minutes. Peter silently eased the door open as the Commander hugged his oversized sweater around him. Peter watched the clouds of cold air puff unevenly from Stiles. His head was tilted back and Peter followed what Stiles was seeing. 

The Earth’s singular moon hung in a half-crescent with twinkling stars and satellites speckling the night sky. Stiles’s breath caught and Peter knew that Stiles realized he wasn’t alone. Stiles refused to turn around, to be seen… longing. 

“Stiles,” Peter wondered when he became selfless as he watched Stiles’s shoulders tense. “Your immune system isn’t adapting to Earth.” 

Finally Stiles turned and his lips were pulled back into a grin that made Peter’s heart _hurt_. 

“When did you get your medical license? I must have missed you cramming for that exam.” The sun rose with a brutal speed. The Earth came alive and Stiles waved off Peter’s concern with aggressive insistence. “I’m _fine_.” 

His lower lip trembled. Stiles was many things, but not a fool. Peter heard the others step out onto the porch. He quickly seized Stiles’s hands, holding him to keep Stiles’s eyes on him. Peter spoke past past the miserable fury that consumed him. 

“If you want to stay here that’s fine,” Peter’s voice wobbled and cracked, “you’ve more than earned it. But… it will be your grave, Stiles. And not in years. It will be _soon_.” 

Stiles ripped his hands free. He stumbled back and glared over Peter’s shoulder. Peter turned to see that everyone was there, even Stiles’s father.

“Derek,” Peter’s nephew straightened, “tell Peter he’s full of shit.” 

The morning light was harsh on the angular points on Stiles’s body. Derek steeled his shoulders. 

“He’s not. You’re not adjusting, Commander.” 

Stiles’s heart stuttered in his chest. Peter knew this because his heart stuttered the same way, he felt the same bellowing grief dig into his bones. Glittering sunlight shone down as their Commander covered his face with his hands. Tears streaked down his chin and he didn’t scream, he didn’t wail, and he didn’t fall to his knees in dramatic agony.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered so soft that only Peter could hear it, “it’s not _fair_.” 

His knees wobbled and Peter caught him before his legs gave out. 

::::

Boyd was still humming one of Stiles’s songs under his breath when the doors to the barracks burst open. The crew was still in various stages of waking up and Erica jerked, pulling herself upright and twisting in front of Boyd as a shield. He gripped her arm to reverse their positions when a Weapons Division officer spoke in an administrative tone. 

“Crew of _The Beacon_ , today you will be restricted to these quarters. Breakfast is being prepared and will be delivered here shortly.” 

Erica’s nails dug into Boyd’s shoulders. Other Weapons Division officers filed in. They were armed, but their weapons weren’t drawn. Their guns hung heavy on their holsters. A few ensigns huddled together, eyes wide, and Boyd ground his teeth together. 

Eerily ethereal ships left the ground and through the windows Boyd saw them take off. 

“Looks like something is in the works,” Erica whispered. 

Boyd held her tight. The Weapons Division officers looked just as nervous, and that didn’t sit well in Boyd’s stomach.

::::

Finstock didn’t dream often because he didn’t sleep often. He enjoyed working and sleep was so _boring_ , but every once and awhile he’d give into his body’s demands and crawl into a bed filled with the finest feathers money— and the Argents— could buy. When Finstock first started working for the Argents he dreamed of luxury, of money, and his designs. 

He still dreamed of his designs. 

When he sank into his bed he’d dream of calloused hands on his cheek. He’d dream of washing a cold cloth over bruises and welts. Instead of silk, Finstock’s fantasies involved his fingers weaving through ink black hair. He didn’t care about money, not when all he could think about was the way Kira’s eyes wrinkled at the corners when he’d make her laugh. 

Strong hands gripped Finstock’s ankles and his eyes flew open in time to see Chris Argent. Finstock’s heart leapt in his throat and he kicked his legs instinctively. 

Chris yanked Finstock forward so he could grab Finstock’s flailing arms. _Oh God, my parents were right. I’m going to fucking die here._ Finstock couldn’t speak around the terror in his throat. Chris pulled him to his feet and Finstock had to shake himself because Chris was speaking. 

“— speeder ready? It’s been going through testing, right?” 

Finstock choked past the lump in his throat. He blinked his eyes into focus and froze when he saw that Chris Argent was scared. 

“It’s been passing the tests just fine but I don’t think it’s ready for combat.” 

Chris paused, his chest heaving. Finstock knew the Argent reputation. You want brutality? Ask for Kate. An iron-first and unshakeable will? Ask for Victoria. Chris wasn’t soft by any stretch of the imagination, but he was more science-minded. The fire in his eyes reminded Finstock that Chris Argent was just as vicious. 

“There shouldn’t be any need for combat. Just an… escort.” 

As seconds ticked away Finstock knew that there was no refusing Chris. 

“Fine. Danny is the best at flying the Skimmer. And I insist on going, I need to be there for any hiccups that might happen.” 

Chris’s shoulders relaxed minutely. 

“Get dressed. You have four minutes.” 

He was ready in three. Finstock yanked a jacket around him tighter as they ran into the night. His stomach was tight as they made their way to the airfield. The Skimmer was waiting as well as two standard Star Growlers built with equal consideration for speed and offense. 

Danny was dressed in his pristine Weapons Division uniform with the words _Transportation Specialist_ sewn across his back. Danny waved at Finstock, his eyes flickering to the engineer’s mismatching socks and wrinkled shirt. Finstock’s eyes widened when other Weapons Division officers came forward. Kira was one of them. 

“Jackson, Malia, you will take the Star Growlers and escort Danny, Kira, and Finstock to the Neutral Zone. After that you will wait,” Chris’s eyes flickered to Finstock’s briefly, “until they return. I will be in constant communication with you. Jackson, Malia, board now and get ready for take off.” The two pilots obeyed without hesitation. “Danny, come here.” 

Danny approached briskly. Chris entered the coordinates into Danny’s communicator. Danny squinted at it and his usually unfazed expression melted into confusion. 

“Sir? Are you sure those coordinates are—”

“Malhealani.” Chris’s voice made the pilot straighten his shoulders. “The moment you leave the Neutral Zone you’ll need to go as fast as the Skimmer is capable to this location. You’ll be contacted via your communicator and you’ll pick up a party of… no more than six.” Chris spoke louder, addressing their small party. “You’ll get in and out, don’t linger on the planet any longer than necessary. Avoid interception by the Federation at _all costs_ , understood?”

_No_ , Finstock wanted to scream, _not fucking understood, Chris!_ Instead, Finstock bent his knees so he wouldn’t faint. He nodded. t Chris exhaled, a silent gesture that they were allowed to board. Kira sprinted up to him. 

“You’re coming with us?” 

She touched his arm, her fingers long and warm. He smiled.

“Somebody’s got to keep this ship together.” 

Kira grinned. Though she wore her impressive Chief Weapons Statigest uniform, she was more comforting than all the money Finstock could imagine. She pulled on his arm and as they boarded, Finstock turned to see that Chris was staring at him. Kira’s hands were still on back, a gentle guide, and Finstock was too far away to tell if Chris was staring at her, him, or… them _together_. Just as the door hissed shut behind them, Kira’s fingers wove between his and squeezed.

Danny took a seat at the pilot’s chair. Finstock and Kira strapped themselves in beside him, Finstock’s knuckles white on his knees. 

“Prepare for flight.” 

Danny entered the coordinates and Finstock closed his eyes. As Danny prepped the engines to send them hurling into space at speeds that stretched the laws of physics, he felt a calloused palm slide over his hand.

::::

The house had been empty for so long John had forgotten what it meant to have _company_. He’d forgotten how the house breathed, how the wood creaked, how the soft breaths of _others_ drifted down the hall. For so long it had just been him, with an attic full of memories, and one room for his son that he refused to change. John hadn’t slept, instead he dug around the attic. The dust was no longer suffocating as he went through old pictures, drawings, report cards, and in the witching hours he went into Stiles’s room. 

His boy was curled up under blankets. His breaths were too even to be real sleep. John gently shook his son’s shoulder. 

“Come on, kid.” It hurt to breathe around the memories of how many times he’d done this before, the gentle shake to wake Stiles to go to school, after a long car ride, or when a movie was over. There had been mornings, the first few weeks, when John had gone into Stiles’s room ready to wake the son that wasn’t there. But now he was real, his flesh was warm and scarred beneath his hand. “Wake up.” 

Stiles turned and his eyes were red and puffy. He had mucus crusted around his nose from crying and he rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve. 

His truck was still green and the passenger seat was still gnarled. Stiles’s fingers caught on it with a small smile as John drove. The roads that had seemed suffocatingly boring suddenly became brand new as Stiles pressed his face up against the window, his voice hoarse as he’d tap his fingers on the glass, “oh man, I _remember_ that house, their dog was an _asshole_ ,” or “when did they change that store? Where will people rent videos?” 

The sound of his son’s voice, worn and deep, was better than any song on the radio. Stiles eventually quieted… probably when he realized where they were headed. The woods grew thicker until the road opened to a cemetery. John grabbed his bag out of the back and stepped out of the truck. 

Stiles froze. His fingers lingered on the metal on his head. 

“Come on.” Stiles stared at him, wide-eyed, and John dug in his bag for a hooded sweatshirt. “I doubt anyone is going to come by, but just in case you can wear this.” 

His breath puffed out in steady clouds as he locked the truck and stepped past the gate in the cemetery. Stiles pulled on the hoodie and glanced around, a thin line forming between his furrowed brow. 

“Isn’t it closed?” 

John paused for a beat then shrugged. 

“I’m the Sheriff.” 

Startled laughter bubbled out of Stiles as they walked among the headstones. John felt his face crack into a smile and soon their laughter was chasing away the cold. John remembered Claudia’s funeral. He thought he’d never know grief that deep again, a white-hot rage of injustice, of _how could this happen to me_ and _how is this fair_? He felt as though the only shape his hands could make were fists. 

He looped his arm around Stiles’s shoulder. His son rested his head on John’s shoulder as they came to Claudia’s headstone.

They sat in the wet dirt with their backs against the slab of granite. John wonders what Claudia would have thought of their son, of the journey he’d made. The growth he showed and not just in height… but in the friends he gained and the scars he carried. John pulled Stiles closer. 

“For years…” John’s voice broke and it took three breaths to regain his composure. “For years I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. If you were stolen, ran away, I… I don’t think I slept for a long time. Food didn’t have taste.” Stiles’s breath hitched and he curled in on himself, hiding his eyes from John. “Hey,” John shook Stiles gently, “Stiles, look at me.” Stiles peered at him, his eyes red and weary. “I can breathe again. I can taste again… because I know you’re all right.” 

Tears welled in Stiles’s eyes and fell in long streaks down his cheeks. He hid his face in the crook of John’s shoulder. His breaths were ragged and raw. 

“I tried so hard.” Stiles shuddered. “No one had heard of Earth, even their big military had no idea.” Stiles sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I thought if… if I did good enough they’d tell me, that they were keeping Earth a secret or something, if I kept excelling then maybe I could go home.” Stiles shook his his head with a laugh that sounded like it burned. “I was such a fucking idiot.” 

John waited for Stiles to catch his breath, for the sour anger to lessen from a roar to a hum. 

“How did you do it?” Stiles made a noise, a wordless _which part… God, which part of the entire thing?_ “How did you find your way home?” 

Stiles smiled, a ghostly shadow on his lips. 

“Peter was the one who found it.” Peter… he was a quiet one, apparently was the doctor’s uncle though he was clearly not a part of the military crew. Stiles tilted his head back, his eyes aimed at the grey sky. “He owed me a favor after we liberated his planet from raiders. So I… I asked him to keep an eye out for a planet covered in green plants and water. It took him a few years but… he found it.” 

John hummed and he let the sounds of Beacon Hills waking up fill the silence for a few moments. 

“You’ve made some good friends.”

“They’re _great_ , dad.” 

Color had begun returning to Stiles’s cheeks over the past few days. He’d been taking more stabilizers and his weight returned. But still, nothing made Stiles light up more than talking about his crew, about the adventures he’d been on, the journeys he’d taken in order to find his way home. 

When Allison had shown John newsreels and reports on Stiles… he didn’t see a man trapped and tied to a job he hated. Even when the situations were dangerous, enough for John to feel his heart hammer against his ribs, Stiles smiled and always, _always_ insisted on going first. _Home_ , John wanted to say, _can have many meanings._

“Tell me about them,” John said instead, nudging Stiles. “I want to hear about the friends you’ve made.” 

Stiles grinned, full and bright. 

“Oh man, where do I _begin_?”

The sun warmed the cemetery as Stiles spoke with growing excitement. He painted John unbelieveable pictures of luck, loyalty, and leadership. Everyone had so much _worth_ and Stiles might have started with the singular drive to return to Earth… but John knew better to believe that it had remained that way. Stiles talked until the sun had warmed the hillside, he talked as they picked up pizza, and he talked as they pushed through the front door.

Stiles’s crew was waiting for him with open arms. John felt as though Claudia were beside him, smiling, when Stiles threw himself into their embrace without hesitation. 

::::

Cat Stevens sang over the living room speakers as Stiles dug around his communicator with tweezers. He hummed under his breath, his tongue bitten between his teeth until he finally was able to wiggle the last tracker free. Allison called her father in the other room, Derek and Lydia helped clean up the living room, while Isaac plotted a course to get back to the ship, and Peter… 

Peter gathered each tracker piece and tossed them into the bonfire out back. 

Allison returned, her wide-eyed and flushed expression quickly changing into professionalism. 

“My father is sending his fastest vessel to pick us up. Once we figure out a safe place for boarding, I can send them the exact coordinates.” 

Isaac wrung his hands. 

“That clunker we took to get here is too slow. We should destroy it.” 

Stiles grinned. 

“You’ll hear no complaints from me.” He twisted around to see his dad making pancakes, Lydia watching him studiously. “Hey dad, do you still have that place up by the lake?” 

They ate pancakes and fresh-squeezed orange juice. For lunch John ran into a diner to make sure no one left Earth without experiencing curly fries. They traveled just before dusk, half of them in the ground-growler, the rest in John’s truck. 

With the wind in his hair and the sun at his back, Stiles felt… whole in a way he couldn’t explain. He expected more pain, more acidic anger… but as they set up magnetic detonators around the ship that had abducted him all those years ago, Stiles felt tranquil. With a brutal _thwip_ the ship went from structured to the size of a baseball in a matter of seconds. 

“You know I’m coming back, right?” It was dark by the time they reached his father’s cabin. It was on a lake and Stiles remembered splashing in the shallows with his mom and going fishing with his dad. It had seen better days, but it still had the two row boats. Stiles helped drag them to the water and his dad hummed. “I mean, I’m gonna load up on stabilizers and I’ll be back. Hell, you’ve got my communicator. Just let me know when Halloween is coming and I’ll be able to walk around, no problem.” 

His father smiled in a way that was mourning and happy all at once. 

“I know.” 

 

“U-Um,” Isaac’s voice jumped up a few octaves as he stared at the rickety boat. “Is this needed?” 

“They’ll need a clearing to get a reading on us. It will be easy to find us within this expanse of water.” Allison answered curtly, before softening. “It will be fine, Isaac. I won’t let you fall.”

Stiles bit back a smile at Isaac’s lavender flush. 

Allison, Isaac, and Lydia shared the one boat, while John, Peter, Derek, and Stiles shared the other. Stiles dipped the paddle into the water and watched it whirl as Allison shared their coordinates. 

“They’re close.” Allison glanced over at Stiles. “We should all be on one boat, so they don’t get confused.” 

“Okay.” Stiles hoped his breathing was even as he brought their boats together. “We’re going to do this slowly, keep your balance so the boat doesn’t tip. Derek, you go first.” 

Stars twinkled in the water’s reflection. The gentle rocking was hypnotic until Stiles was the last one left. 

With the water lapping at the side of the boat, an approaching Argent ship, and the moon above him… Stiles no longer felt adrift. He hugged his father, probably a bit too hard, and then stepped over on the boat with his crew. Peter took Stiles’s hand as Stiles steadied himself using Lydia’s shoulder. 

A flash of gentle, teal light pulsed above them and a ship dropped out of warp in complete silence. Stiles had never seen a ship like it, with such smooth finishings and when it gently eased above them Stiles could swear it was _breathing_. Allison grabbed Stiles’s hand and he saw his father’s jaw drop at the sight of their getaway vessel. 

“Dad?” His father flinched, his boat gently drifting farther from them. Stiles would never forget his father’s voice and he’d never forget where he was born. His father smiled, thin and wobbly. “I love you.” 

Unlike the first time, the light was welcoming. It was the knitted blanket at his grandmother’s house, it was the plants that lined the windows that his mother would sing to, and it was the feeling of his father’s arm on his shoulder. 

Heartache, which had weighed in his bones for so long… was lifted by the feeling of _crew_ , of Isaac gaining confidence over the years, of Lydia’s resolute dedication to helping Stiles organize games for the crew, of Derek emerging from his grumpy shell to share a birthday dinner for a crew member, and it was how Allison would smile at him when they completed an objective.

Peter’s fingers were warm against Stiles’s palm. Stiles watched his father’s hair blow back from the incoming beam. 

“I love you too, Stiles.” 

The words cut through the light and Stiles’s throat was tight as he disappeared into the transporter light. Once again, Stiles left Earth, nothing but a rocking row boat left as evidence of his return. 

The Sheriff remained in his singular boat, the water rocking below him. He kept his eyes to the sky, the ethereal ship only pausing for a moment before it shot off in a thin slice of light and heat. 

He smiled and starlight wash over his face. 

::::

Staying still was not an act that Erica enjoyed. _The Beacon_ had been such a dream come true, all the maintenance and design upgrades always kept Erica moving, darting between bits of metal and crawling into tight spaces to replace a part— she knew no greater joy. 

Her foot bounced as another hour ticked by. So far the Argents had been distant, but adequate hosts for… at best a group of refugees, at worst a group of traitors to the Federation. Something had changed their tune and Erica was getting cagier by the minute. Just when she was about to snap, one of the Weapons Officers straightened as one of their peers ran to them. 

“Guys, we have to go to the airstrip. Chris Argent’s orders.” 

“But—” 

The other officer had already gone, and out the door Erica caught a glimpse of… what seemed like the _entire_ Weapons Division running. The officers that chaperoned the Beacon crew cleared out within seconds. 

No one hesitated to grab what little they still had of their belongings before rushing out of the barracks. Boyd squeezed her hand while Erica cleared her throat, Ensigns and Officers looking up at her with wide, panicked eyes. 

“Alright, I don’t know about you guys but I don’t want to stick around to see what _that_ was all about.” She lowered her voice as more officers ran by, none of them giving the crew a second glance. “If we keep calm and don’t _look_ scared, we might be able to find The Beacon and try our luck in the Neutral Zone.” 

It was a long shot but it was all they had. Boyd’s lips curled into a grim smile and Erica straightened her back like their Commander would. They ventured down the roads, toward the airstrip only because it was lined by hangar bays. Erica welcomed the sting of adrenalin between her teeth with open arms. _It almost feels the way it used to._ With Boyd at her side and the crew behind her, it was easy to imagine that, just over the horizon, waiting for them would be—

“Erica! Boyd!” 

Erica halted, Boyd bumping into her back as she searched out the frantic voice that called out to her. When she spotted him her heart stopped. 

“ _Isaac_?” She had time to breathe once before he threw himself into her arms, pulling at Boyd’s shoulders until they hugged him tight. Erica blinked past the tears in her eyes, struggling to hold Isaac tighter and shake him at the same time. “How are you— how did you—?”

She was able to glance over his shoulder to see it wasn’t just him, but Allison, Derek, and Lydia. Chris Argent was shaken as he placed his hand on Allison’s shoulder. They were escorted by Weapons Divisions officers. The officers all looked like they’d seen a ghost. Isaac pushed himself back, just enough to turn around in time to see the crowd part. 

The crew of _The Beacon_ inhaled sharply as a unit when they saw that Commander Stilinski had returned.

.  
.  
.  
...  
..  
.

**Author's Note:**

> WELL HERE IT IS FOLKS. 
> 
> So honesty hour... this has been the plan from the beginning. I wasn't sure if I was ever going to write out the sequel, but when I posted If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out, I knew Stiles could never stay home. It just wasn't right. His home is in space. But yay for closure, for found families, and the promise of a better tomorrow, right? 
> 
> I am nervous about this. But I am happy. This is how I always wanted it to turn out. Please, let me know what you think, all comments and thoughts welcome. 
> 
> P.S. Father and Son by Cat Stevens was a very inspirational song while I was writing this.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/), and if you want to know how to support me, [**check out this post!**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/post/180674529547/patreon-ko-fi-post)


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